


'And gently turn'd over upon me'

by je_t_oublie



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, M/M, POV Elim Garak, Post-Coital Cuddling, War as a metaphor for lovemaking, really there is a lot of unhealthy use of war terms despite them caring about each other, the inside of Garak's mind is not a healthy place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 12:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16326236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/je_t_oublie/pseuds/je_t_oublie
Summary: The cultural upbringing of Cardassians has left Garak's translation of his first night with Julian Bashir in a way he wisely keeps to himself.





	'And gently turn'd over upon me'

**Author's Note:**

> This entire thing started off with that pun, and the fact I have snippets of poetry written out as prompts. My apologies.

His tone was warm as the Cardassian night, languid in way Garak had only before heard echoes of whilst suffering through the waxing lyrical about the lover of the week from the other side of the table. 

“Even I can like some subtlety sometimes. Not everything needs to be as flowery as Keats.” 

A long and lithe arm freed itself from the tangled sheet, stretching down to cup the curve of one of his scaled hips, the other folded above their heads, fingers tangled in the loose threads of his long black hair, a concession to the culture of the invaded. The whole body was warm, curved around him like a sunbeam and glowing even in the gloom of Cardassia's dust obscured moons through their door covering.

“How you settled your heard athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,  
And parted the shirt from my bosom bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,  
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.”

He had draped himself over, thin ribcage pressing against Garak’s upper arm, bare leg scorching where it was thrown over his own. The weight was neglible, but he carefully factored it into his response time, estimated equations on the total extra weight, likelihoods of his bed companion’s reactions, his now limited reach for concealed weaponry, possibilities and probabilities accounted for in the pause he took before answering. 

“Was it too much to hope you had worn out your poetry on the dabo girls? I am not so easily charmed.” 

“Mmmm, but you appreciated the hunt almost as much as the catch.” 

“Almost? You think highly of your performance.”

There was a sharp pinch from the fingers splayed above his hip and he shifted, the hand slipping down to lay over the more heavily scaled dip of his thigh, arterial veins covered by an interlocking system that would protect him just as well from pinches as from blades. Seemingly delighted with a new territory, it took up a gentle exploration that he deemed a safe distraction from more attacks.

“I can only work with what I'm told, and if you were as obvious about your biology as you are about your flirting, you could have made things easier.” 

“Flirting? That’s another assumption without evidence. Really, my dearest doctor, I hope you have not resorted to such guesswork in your other intellectual pursuits.” 

“I wouldn’t go as far as to quote them in a paper, but I had enough Bajorans pulling me aside on Deep Space Nine with kindly warnings. It almost made me question whether you really were a spy, if an entire station could see your intentions.” 

“They thought the tailor was a danger to you? I must admit to have pricked myself with some carelessly placed pins.” 

“Really Garak, I think I'm well aware of any pricks in the room.” There was quiet amusement underpinning the tone now, and the hand moved determinedly back from it’s assault of his right thigh towards a more disputed and dangerous front.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, old Terran slang for the male genitalia. I should have known Cardassian wouldn’t have an equivalent translation. “ 

He flexed his left arm, trapped beneath soft flesh that had offered no resistance to each area marched upon, masking the intent of keeping his arm responsive with a broad stroke of his hand down the long back, fingers catching on each undefended vertebrae. There was a comfortable uncoiling in response, the last defences dropped and eyelashes brushing against the sensitive hollow at his throat, the warm weight of a head and soft hair pressing on sensitive ridges he had offered as an acceptable sacrifice to their war. The wandering hand had landed on the neutral ground, laying lax across his ribcage, and he factored in its safe position as an acceptable risk if he fell asleep as the human laying across him was in the process of. 

“Cardassia would never admit to something that was as uncouth as such Terran phrases. Tell me, are there other lewd sewing related puns I should prepare myself for?” 

Garak kept his voice low, wary of startling the enemy and losing ground but the only response was soft lips moving against his scales, eyes firmly closed. 

“If I tell you them now, then I won’t have any left for next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Julian quotes is from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman. You'll find it in part five (coincidentally right above my one of my favourite pieces of poetry in part six... Okay, it's not a coincidence, it's how I found the part five bit.)  
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45477/song-of-myself-1892-version
> 
> Garak never uses Julian's name in his head, for the twisted and uncomfortable reasoning of not giving your enemy a name that makes them more human (for lack of a better term.) And no, Bashir isn't his enemy, but the way Garak's mind translates this lovely thing is into terms his culture brought him up with. 
> 
> Apologies for the gap between posting, I've been swamped by babysitting, a trip away for my birthday (turning 24 was only made up for only by the amount I embarrassingly sobbed while seeing Les Misérables live for the 4th and 5th time since I discovered it 8 years ago, and submerging myself in the Styx river) and other miscellaneous life things.   
> Yet I've still not finished season seven of DS9. The shame.


End file.
